


no maiden dress to alter

by Marzana (Dymestwyn)



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: F/M, Fanfiction of Fanfiction, Marriage Proposal, Miscellaneous Ishgard Bullshit, Unplanned Pregnancy, babies ever after, putting canon in a blender and making a delicious smoothie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-18 20:15:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28623957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dymestwyn/pseuds/Marzana
Summary: Stephanivien’s mouth fell open. “Do you mean to say theWarrior of Lighttold you you werepregnant?!” he asked querulously, overwhelmed.
Relationships: Stephanivien de Haillenarte/Joye
Comments: 11
Kudos: 38





	no maiden dress to alter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pudgy puk (deumion)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deumion/gifts).



> Dedicated to the exceptionally talented puk, without whom I would not have any of these Stephanivien/Joye feelings. (And who kindly let me use Lapinette, her original Lady Haillenarte.) Papa Haillenarte's reaction is a softer version of Papa Vakarian's in the excellent Mass Effect fic [Bloodlines](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1859244/chapters/4001097)
> 
> Regrettably this is unbeta'd. It is also ludicrously self-indulgent but I don't regret that bit in the least.

Joye folded and rolled her laundry neatly, tucking stockings and petticoats and blouses and skirts in the crannies of her trunk with practiced ease, when her little stash of rags caught her eye and she paused. How long had it been since she’d washed those? How long since she’d _used_ them, for that matter?

She thought back through the moons, retracing her path through vague quotidian memories, and frowned. Had she _ever_ felt the urge to wave off Stephanivien for fear of mess or to nurse one of the fatigued headaches that her courses brought her? She bit her lip when she realized that she couldn’t—and realized too that her flow had been more erratic since she had picked up her carbine and aether converter.

Aether was both familiar and very, very mysterious. Could the converter be doing something untoward to her womb? Pulling aether from where it needed to be for her own health?

She sat down on the bed with a sudden thump. Had Stephan’s brilliant invention been used so frequently by any other woman than she? Who would even know if there were some hidden peril in the tools of the machinistry she loved so dearly?

But then…

“No,” she announced softly but firmly to the empty room. “I am being foolish.” She set her jaw and rose to finish the rest of her tidying. Silently she resolved to make a record of her own health. She was sure that cold hard facts would steady her again—

“And not set myself to fretting on nothing on my one day of leisure!” she admonished herself with a wry smile.

She made herself a tiny pocket notebook out of scrap paper glued with a wide cutting of ribbon for a binding, and carefully marked her daily health, and her mood besides. (It felt unlikely that she were going mad or anything... but her da had had a cousin that developed an uncharacteristically nasty temper mere moons before dropping dead right on the tavern’s bar, so it seemed prudent to assemble all the facts she had at hand.)

After some weeks of this she felt extraordinarily silly, for all her facts seemed to show her a young and robustly healthy woman in quite good spirits. She felt no little bit of pleasure at this, for she felt that to be both strong and good-natured was rather becoming.

Still, though, her courses were stubbornly absent.

She thought briefly of consulting a physician, but quickly dismissed that idea for the cost. She thought about a midwife instead, but with no lover but her handsome elezen, calling on a midwife felt ridiculous, and somehow vaguely insulting to that profession.

She was still chewing on the problem when she met with Hilda for their weekly jaunt around the market stalls.

“You _are_ out of sorts, Joye, what nanka’s in your socks today?” teased Hilda after repeatedly trying and failing to capture her friend’s attention with a bag of spiced chestnuts.

Joye hmm’d thoughtfully.

“Joye?” Hilda prodded.

“You know all sorts, don’t you?” Joye asked suddenly.

“Aye, ‘spose I do,” came the cautious reply.

“What sort of person would you—” Joye cut herself off suddenly as another shopper passed close enough to brush her skirts. She glanced around, then pulled Hilda into a nearby alcove. In a voice barely above a whisper, she tried again:

“What sort of person would you consult if you were having problems with your… your courses?”

Hilda boggled at her, lovely red eyes wide.

“Joye Neuve, are you _up the spout_?!” she exclaimed in a whisper so loud it barely deserved the name.

“Shhhh! Shhh of course not, that’s—no. No, you know full well it’s… well alright I’ll grant it’s not _impossible_ but it’s certainly not bloody likely!” Joye seldom swore when not shooting but this situation very much seemed to call for strong language. “Honestly, Hilda, do you want the whole market to hear?”

“Well pardon me for being more than a little gobsmacked when you just blurt that out easy as you please! You’re certainly daring these days, aren’t you?” Hilda’s tone wasn’t quite unkind but she did seem rather ruffled by the rebuke.

“I’m nothing of the sort,” she protested, a little weakly. “I’m just… well… they’ve not come for a spell now, and I’m concerned it might be something with my aether and the carbines and—and—and well I’m certainly not going to the healer’s clinic at the cathedral, now am I!”

Hilda frowned thoughtfully, her brow furrowing in concern. “Hm, that _is_ quite the nut to crack.” Reminded of the packet in her hand, she offered Joye the little bag of nuts again, but was rebuffed.

Joye knew the look of her friend’s solving-things face and so let herself be pulled back into the flow of shoppers to look over the assembled goods.

~~~

A scant few days later, an imposing Roegadyn woman—taller even than Stephanivien—walked into the Manufactory and, rather than heading straight for its chief or one of the other engineers, met Joye’s gaze and silently gestured with a jerk of her chin to follow her up the stairs to the mezzanine.

Joye followed with some trepidation but felt secure enough within the familiar walls that she was mostly curious.

Once they were sufficiently secluded in the corner by some of the crates of lesser-used materials, the woman spoke, her tone frank but not unfriendly.

“Are you Joye, then? Hilda said you could use an… expert opinion, of sorts, and was happy enough to owe me a favor for stopping by.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Joye quietly. “Er… yes, actually, I do. Is there someplace I should meet you, madam…?”

The woman waved off Joye’s polite attempt to fish for her name and shook her head. “No need. I’m a conjurer, so just taking a little peek of a check-in is simple enough to do here, no bells and whistles needed—as long as that’s alright with you.”

Joye thought for a moment, looking around to make sure the nearest workers—and especially Stephanivien—were well out of earshot.

“Well, if you’re sure it’s no trouble…”

The woman smiled and shook her head. “She said you were a mannerly sort. I appreciate it. I promise it’s easy as breathing. Just stand there and let me see what needs looking at.”

With that, she concentrated and moved her hand, glowing with a barely visible light, in front of Joye. She moved it slowly at a space of a few ilms in front of her abdomen, from the bottom of Joye’s ribcage down nearly to her anxiously-clenched thighs.

“Ah,” she said, a small surprised noise of discovery.

“Is that a good ‘ah’ or a bad ‘ah’?” Joye asked, as calmly as she could.

“Well, Miss Joye, I suspect that depends mostly on you.” She paused. “And the father, I suppose.”

For a long moment, her mind could not parse this statement into anything resembling sense. When it finally dawned on her what was meant, Joye felt her ears tingle as all the blood rushed out of her head and pooled somewhere lower in her body.

“Whoa there!” the roegadyn exclaimed quietly as she caught her. “No swooning now,” she chided gently, but with a little slyness. “Strictly off limits for such a healthy young lady in such a condition.”

“The—but then— you mean?” Joye mumbled plaintively as the woman steered her unresisting body to a nearby crate and sat her down, pushing her head down to rest somewhere near her trembling knees.

“I’ll say the word if you want, but I thought mebbe with so many ears around you’d prefer I didn’t?”

“Oh.” Joye thought carefully as the blood slowly returned to her poor head. “Yes,” she mumbled, feeling dulled by shock. “I suppose that’s sensible. Thank you.”

She felt a large hand smooth gently over the back of her head. The woman’s voice was even gentler when she went on. “Do you need help with what to do, lass? It’s likely about three moons along, mebbe four, so there’s choices what could be made. Or… well, with a friend like Hilda and a blunderbuss like the one on your hip I imagine you’ve not much to worry about this causing any danger for you, but I’ll make sure you’re taken somewhere if you need it?”

Joye shook her head, rocking it against her crossed forearms where they rested on her knees. “No, nothing like that.” She took a deep breath. “It’s just… rather unexpected is all.”

The soothing hand on her head continued its path, and she tried to let herself be calmed.

“I think… I think I’ll be alright now, thank you, madam.” Joye lifted her head and nodded firmly to the woman. She was suddenly, fiercely glad they’d stayed in the building, where she could _be_ firm and decisive, for this bizarre conversation.

“Hm, so you say. Well, there’s nothing wrong with you; some folks’ courses never do run regular, for all they’re called ‘moonly.’ I won’t trouble you more, but if you find you need aid of any kind—and I mean _any_ —call on me at Fortemps Manor. Just tell whoever you speak to that Hilda sent you, and they’ll know to come fetch me or someone in my stead.”

“Fortemps—but then you must be—” Joye felt her blood try to escape her skull again.

“Just an adventurer with a little conjury skill; nothing to fuss yourself over. Just sit there a spell and I’ll see myself out.”

Joye made some faint noise approximating a polite “Good day” and returned her face to her folded arms as the woman’s footsteps faded into the distance. For the span of many long breaths she sat, not letting herself think about _anything_ , until Stephanivien came bounding up the stairs in search of some part or another and spied her.

Striding quickly to her side, he crouched like her mysterious conjurer—like the _Warrior of Light_! her brain supplied—had done, and with equal gentleness touched a hand to her shoulder.

“All right, Joye?”

She could picture his dear angular face furrowing with worry and puzzlement, and she smiled to see it match her imaginings exactly when she looked up at him.

“Right as rain. Just needed a quiet moment, I promise.” She felt her smile widening without her say-so as his relief and fondness flashed across his face.

“I shan’t trouble you, then, though there’s mutton sandwiches downstairs if you’re hungry,” he murmured, affecting a tone of disinterested generosity as if watching her eat wasn’t one of his favorite things.

With another soft touch to her shoulder—nearly slipping into a caress down her back, though she felt him catch himself—he rose and strode down the stairs.

When she finally felt as if _all_ of her blood was where it was supposed to be, she stood, took a steadying breath, and followed him. No sense in missing out on good sandwiches, after all.

~~~

Joye managed to keep her baffling new knowledge to herself for all of three suns, willing herself not to carry herself any differently, not to act or speak or _smell_ any differently if she could help it. And at the end of those three suns she was worn to the bone from keeping herself so severely in check.

On the last night, her duties and Stephanivien’s finally aligned and she made her way to his little garret on weary feet, her secret feeling as if it were ready to burst from her tongue.

She reached the garret a little before him, and let herself in—he never did learn to latch it properly, she thought exasperatedly—and laid down on his long, narrow bed to rest her eyes.

The feeling of her braids being undone with careful hands roused her from her shallow doze, and she tilted her head to give Stephanivien a hazy smile as he knelt next to the little bed.

“Hello my love,” he murmured, still carding his fingers through her hair. “Are you sure you’re quite well? I admit I’m charmed to come home to a beauty in my bed like some fairy tale pauper prince, but this is a bit out of character for you—especially as you let the door stay unbolted.”

She bit her lip, not sure where to begin, and his breath caught.

“My dearest, _are_ you ill?” he asked, worried. “You’ve been quiet these past few suns—quiet even for you—“ He cut himself off with a shake of his head. “But no matter. Have you seen a physician? No, of course not, you’d not spend the coin ‘less you truly needed, and you’re well enough to work…”

He trailed off, clever brain clearly skipping down multiple paths at once, brow furrowing severely even as his hands finished working her braids undone and smoothed softly over her shoulders.

She shook her head and sat up, stretching a bit as she perched on the side of the bed and feeling her back give a satisfying crack.

“I’m not ill, though… I’m not sure I’m quite, quite well either,” she ventured quietly.

“Joye?” he responded, sounding lost, letting his hands trail down to hold hers loosely.

“I have had a very strange week,” she finally managed. She saw him start to say something and shook her head. “Let me say my piece, or I might lose my nerve,” she continued.

“For the last moon or so I have had the inclination that something was not quite right with—with—” She took a deep breath. “With my, erm, moonly courses. You know?” She looked up at him to confirm his intelligence on these delicate matters and he nodded, though his brow remained furrowed in concern and growing confusion.

“I thought perhaps there was something awry with the aether converter pulling from where it ought not—”

“Oh gods, Joye—” Stephanivien’s tone was appalled.

“—And so I thought to ask someone,” she continued, cutting off his panic before it could begin, “who was far more familiar with aether and the internal workings of folks’ bodies than me. And so I did, and so it turns out there’s nothing wrong with the aether converter and there’s nothing wrong with me, only… only…”

She looked down at their hands, all entwined, and gently disentangled their fingers. She turned his hand and brought it to her abdomen, so that he cupped her belly gently. His hand was big enough to span her waist now, though she guessed that would change in short enough time.

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” she concluded quietly, “though I ‘spose you could say there’s something a bit unusually _right_ with me.”

He blinked at his hand against her for a moment, then started back a bit and flung his head up to look her in the eye.

“Are you—but you couldn’t be—”

His eyes were so round and shocked he looked nearly like a paissa, and if she hadn’t been so worried she’d have laughed.

“The… well … Hilda has a friend that’s a conjurer, and she checked me aether, and said… and said three moons along, or maybe four, already.”

Stephanivien’s mouth fell open. “Do you mean to say the _Warrior of Light_ told you you were _pregnant_?!” he asked querulously, overwhelmed.

Joye opened her mouth, closed it again, and nodded.

“Is it… is it _bad_ news, Stephan?” she whispered.

To her shock and dismay, he burst into silent tears and buried his face in her lap. Reflexively, her hands came down to caress his hair, still a bit dusty and sweaty from the Manufactory, and she petted him gently, steadily, as he curled himself into her.

After a few long, agonizing moments, he brought his arm up to scrub a sleeve across his face, and slowly, tenderly, grasped her hand and kissed it. Letting out a shaky breath, he sat back on his heels and looked at her face with such startling love in his eyes she nearly cried just from the overwhelming _muchness_ of it.

“You are the most wonderful woman I have ever met, or am likely to ever meet,” he stated quietly, clearly, like stating a fact. “You surprise me at every turn, and nearly every surprise has gladdened my heart and strengthened my character.”

She felt herself blush and started to try to wave him off but he persisted.

“Joye. _Joye_. I know full well who I am, and I am a better man with you and _because_ of you.

“My love,” he continued, unshed tears making his fervent whisper a croak, “if a way can be found, not because of this, but because you are marvelous and because you are _you_ —will you marry me?”

She froze.

The wall chronometer ticked on loudly in the silence, which grew uneasy... and then oppressive, when she could not make her voice work.

“...oh,” Stephanivien said, and then swallowed loudly, looking back down at her lap. “That’s—that’s fine, I shouldn’t have presumed, Fury, I’m sorry for being so rash—”

“Yes,” she rasped out, a tiny word feeling like it was made of glass—glass coated in the acid they used for detailing the carbines, perhaps, so scathing was it to her voicebox.

“—I know better, should know better, you prefer—what?” His tongue tripped over his own nervous rambling when his ears caught up to the small sound she’d made.

She squeezed his hand tightly and tried again. “Yes,” she managed in a shaky whisper. “Yes, if your parents consent, and Daddy, and if you can—can find a way we can be happy.”

“A life with you would be my every happiness,” he swore fervently (and a little flippantly) as happiness came rushing back.

“Stephan. Please,” she murmured. “You know what I mean.”

He sobered immediately. “I know. I will countenance no scheme that traps you in the life of a highborn lady without any of the protections of a life of training like the one my sister sensibly fled from. Nor will I expose you to curiosity and ridicule as the woman who ‘trapped’ the heir of one of the high houses. I don’t know what the solution to this puzzle will be, but I promise, my love, I will investigate it to the best of my ability.”

Leaning in, he kissed her tenderly and with no small amount of passion. “There is no office or honor I wish in this world more dearly than to be called your husband,” he murmured against her mouth.

“I’d be so proud to be your wife, Stephanivien. My Stephan,” she whispered, still not quite able to voice anything louder. “I have faith in you.”

Boldly, she let herself fall back onto the bed, and pulled him up to join her.

~~~

For a week, Stephanivien racked his brain, to little avail. Leaving Ishgard was the clearest path to success, but he had no wish to repudiate his family nor separate Joye from her friends. (He was no fool; all of the plans he concocted that ended in their exile also involved persuading her father to come along.)

He had few allies among his peers, and too few friends at all. If only Chlodebaimt had not—! He let himself indulge in resentful grief for just a moment, then shook it off angrily. There was no time to be wasted on such inefficient tangents.

This puzzle had a deadline, he knew. Though he remembered little enough of the details, he remembered the point in all his mother’s subsequent pregnancies when her lap would suddenly become too small for a child to perch easily, and if Joye were closer to four moons than three, time was slipping through his fingers.

He racked his brain, and did mindless repairs on anything he could get his hands on, and thought and _thought._ Without his intention or consent his mind strayed to Chlodebaimt again and again but _why_ that wasn’t helping, it’s not like he knew anything about _marriage,_ _honestly,_ he was a _swot_ of a choirboy, he was _valorous_ and _chaste_ and—

Chlodebaimt went to services with devout regularity.

Chlodebaimt was well-known to members of the clergy.

_Chlodebaimt had been friends with the new Trinity student in the Scholasticate._

Stephanivien yanked open his drawers looking for pen and paper, but finding only draftsman’s pads, slammed the drawer shut in frustration. Stomping for the door, he paused only to fling on his coat and then settle his face into something approaching his usual distracted calm.

Some bells later, having arrived home, sent off his polite and carefully-worded missive, and received the affirmative reply, he began to pace his room. What should the next steps should be, if the deacon agreed, should they try to rush through—

No.

His Joye deserved better than something rushed and sordid. Well, for all that it _must_ be a little rushed and sordid, he wouldn’t ask her to come get married in his bedroom on her rest break from cleaning his mother’s porcelain knickknacks. He wasn’t the most romantic of souls but he knew better than that, at least.

He meandered down to the small east parlor, pokey and with a fire that tended to smoke but better-insulated than the west parlor and therefore harder to eavesdrop on. When the butler announced the deacon quietly, he thanked his lucky stars his mother was sound asleep and most of the staff had not yet been rehired.

“Deacon Theomocent, thank you for coming on such short notice, and with such a flimsy invitation,” he said politely as he gave a formal bow.

“Just Theomocent is fine, m’lord,” the young man replied politely. “You said Chlodebaimt had left something for me when he…” His voice trailed off delicately.

“Well, erm, yes. That was true, only it’s a bit of a strain to the truth, you see. That is, what he’s left behind is one rather awkward and impious brother, which is to say, erm, me. And I’m hoping you were as fond of him as he was of you—praised you, rather giddily you know, for your brilliance and compassion, and donated some books, I believe?—anyway, that you were fond enough to help me on a rather delicate ecclesiastical matter.”

Theomocent blinked at this, his large eyes seeming very bewildered behind his spectacles, and said, “Oh, well, that’s… very kind of you to say, I suppose, and I’m happy to help if I can, but what use could a viscount have for a deacon, and one rather new at that?”

Stephanivien grimaced slightly at the word “viscount,” but forged on gamely.

“I mean to be married, you see. True and proper, but also _secret_ for very good reasons, not the least of which is the continued health and well-being and ease of mind of my—” Here he blushed, unexpectedly and rather sweetly. “—my bride. So, er, is there a way to do such a thing?”

Poor Theomocent gaped at him.

After a moment he gathered his wits and replied. “I… don’t know, actually.” Frowning, he tapped his chin in thought. “I can’t imagine there wouldn’t be, however, as long as the license could be got. It’s a bit time-consuming, as I recall from my rites class; you’ve got to have all the consanguinity investigated and both houses (and any patron houses, of course) must consent to—”

“She’s a commoner, Theomocent, none of that is relevant,” came the interruption. “Surely…

"What?” Stephanivien blinked at the appalled look on Theomocent’s face that was slowly turning to indignation.

“Vicomte de Haillenarte, I will not pervert my sacred office to facilitate the exploitation of—what, your maidservant? A pretty bar girl? I had heard some rumours about you, you know, but your note seemed so guileless I felt they must be idle wind. If you will excuse me.” And here he turned to leave.

“Nonononono you’ve got it wrong, I swear, I’m not—” Once again Stephanivien racked his brain for the right answer. “’Of the Fury's love will _all_ men receive, and by the balance of Her spear will all be set free,’” he quoted in a rush. “I swear to you I love her and want only what’s best for her. She’s the best woman I have met in all my life, and I only want us to be free together.

“And she _did_ say yes?” he offered timidly.

Themocent had frozen in the doorway when he heard that particular passage of the _Articles of Halonic Polity_ , but turned slowly and returned to look Stephanivien in the eye with deep scrutiny.

Slowly, he nodded. “Very well, I will at least consider it. I would like to speak to the young lady myself before agreeing, but first… that passage is not well-known, and less so yet among the high houses. How did you come to know it?”

Stephanivien smiled, a little sadly. “As I said, my brother spoke very highly of you and your theology. Said you were the brightest student in the pack, and your words were a reminder to him of the high ideals he strove and fought for.”

The young deacon staggered a little, then, as if struck, before drawing his spine straight again.

“You and the young lady should come to the Scholasticate chapel on Firesday, before morning mass—perhaps 7? And bring your two witnesses. If I feel that all is well, I will marry you. And if I can, I will find some way to keep the common license from the records office.

“If I feel there is _anything_ untoward or that the young lady is not _overjoyed_ to twine herself to you, I will not help you and further I will report you to the Vault for corruption of a woman below your station.”

Theomocent’s voice softened noticeably as he continued, “But I hope for all our sakes you are who you seem to be, and that this wedding will be a blessing to perform—not only for you, but for the future of our very nation.”

He bowed quickly. “I take my leave, milord.”

~~~

The following morning, Count Baurendoin de Haillenarte was surprised to find Stephanivien waiting outside his office door with something vaguely resembling patience.

Quirking an eyebrow, he led them both in and gestured his son into an empty chair.

Stephanivien sat very straight in the chair, looking even more like a distressed dhalmel than usual, and then sprang up and closed the office door.

He returned to the chair, sat gingerly, and blurted, “It’s really about time you made Francel the heir.”

Baurendoin groaned. “Stephan—”

“Father, I am stepping down. I _must_ step down. I’m—I mean to be married.”

The count shot him an unimpressed glare. “It may have escaped your notice, but your lady mother has been working on that for some time, and it may _also_ have escaped your notice that it is in fact your _duty_ as heir of this house to marry and—”

“I shall marry Joye. I _will_ marry Joye. And...and she is _enceinte_ , father,” Stephanivien nearly shouted in a rush of relief and giddiness at being able to say it aloud (and some small apprehension regarding his father’s reaction).

“Oh my son, I am sorry,” Baurendoin said quietly, with great regret.

“You… you’re _sorry_?”

“Sorry to see you made a fool, sorry to see you lose your heart to a girl we all thought was, well, so very _good.”_ He shook his head in dismay.

Stephanivien recoiled.

“I assure you the child is mine, and if the Fury blesses us so that she is able to bring this child to term, I will allow you to apologize for the grave insult you have just delivered so that you may see your first grandchild,” he said, clear and cold as a frozen windowpane. “But if you ever suggest again my love is unchaste or untrue I will remove myself and her and any children, born or raised, that we are blessed with, from you and from mother and from this city, until the day I die. Am I clear?”

The count slumped in his great chair and stared at him, uncomprehending.

“You truly believe this, then? And you mean to carry through with this? Have you come just to tell me to disinherit you? Because at the moment I am disinclined to do anything but shackle you closer.”

“I believe truly that it is my duty to serve this city and her people and do all such good works as are meet and right for a son of House Haillenarte. But I will leave rather than have my own dreams so callously disregarded one more time. I came to ask for your consent to be married, and foolishly thought I would gain it, and your happiness besides.”

Again, father studied son, looking for… what, Stephanivien could not say.

At last, he shrugged. “If you can convince your mother to consent to this madness, I’ll not gainsay you.” He clenched his jaw and turned his attention to the papers on the desk. “You are dismissed, Stephan,” he said without looking up.

After a long, frustrated moment, Stephanivien left, closing the door softly behind him.

~~~

He sat in his bedroom for nearly a bell, thinking up (and just as quickly discarding) strategies to convince his mother to give her consent.

In the end, he decided to appeal to her frankness, the trait which she had given generously to each of her children in turn.

He went in search of Joye.

Finding her in Aurvael’s room, dusting furiously, he chuckled quietly at her fierce determination to acquit her daily tasks as cleanly and as accurately as shooting a pistol. She started at the noise, and blushed to see him smiling at her in the doorway.

“Oh, m’lord, I didn’t see you there!” she said, a little awkwardly. Through mostly unspoken negotiations they had agreed to avoid each other in the house as much as possible. Neither enjoyed cramming themselves into the tight strictures of their roles as lord and servant when so much of their time was spent as equals.

“Joye, I’d like you to come with me to speak to my mother,” he said quietly.

She blanched.

“But—”

“I know this is a daunting trial, but I think she will see the truth, when I speak to her, and I would rather she see it from both of us. I respect her opinion enough to hope she will look favorably upon it.”

“There’s few enough servants here, still… I suppose it’d not court too much gossip if we didn’t stop in too long,” she managed to murmur.

He started to offer his arm, or take her hand, but thought better of it, at least for the time being. She set her little duster into the pretty brass dustbin and inspected her hands carefully. Taking a handkerchief from her pocket, she wiped each of her fingers clean, then the palms, then tucked the handkerchief away.

“No soot on my face?” she asked a little louder, trying for a joke and nearly managing.

He smiled. “No, though you’ve got a lock of hair…” He started to reach for her, to tuck the unruly strands neatly behind her ear, but she darted away and did it herself, peering into the reflective surface of one of Aurvael’s framed specimen boxes.

“Well, let’s get going then,” she said, squaring her shoulders.

Again he resisted the temptation to take her hand, and let her trail behind him as he made the seemingly interminable trek down the hall to his mother’s room.

At last they arrived, and when he knocked softly he heard his mother’s voice beckon them in.

He opened the door and gestured Joye in before him like a lady, and she glared at him briefly, blushing beet red, but let him usher her into the room.

Lapinette de Haillenarte’s left eyebrow was already climbing to her hairline by the time Stephanivien shut the door behind himself.

“Joye, my dear—or perhaps Stephanivien, my dear—is something awry? Has one of you wronged the other?”

She paused, and watched Stephanivien open and close his mouth like a fish while her dear sweet maid blushed redder than a cooked crab.

“Mother, we—” Stephanivien managed.

“Oh you _haven’t_ ,” moaned Lapinette in dismay.

Joye’s blush grew nearly purple—and then between one breath and the next she went white as a sheet and began to crumple.

Stephanivien caught her carefully and, looking around, settled her on the chaise longue. Ignoring his mother completely, he tried rather inexpertly to test her temperature with the back of his hand and fan her face and loosen the ribbons on her wrists all at once.

Lapinette watched this performance, bemused.

The girl seemed to be breathing well enough but had not yet regained her wits, so Lapinette eased herself out of bed and went to fetch her least-nasty bottle of smelling salts from the vanity.

Gently, she shooed her son out of the way and began to tend to the girl. She unlaced her cuffs and untied the bow at her throat, made sure her waist was uncorseted, and then uncorked the smelling salts and wafted them under Joye’s nose.

With a cough, Joye’s eyes flew open, and then fluttered half-shut again. “Stephan, what…?” she murmured muzzily, and Lapinette sighed.

“Well, go on then,” she said to Stephanivien, only a little testy, and hid her smile when he darted to Joye’s side fast as a cat. Perching on the chaise next to her, he gently helped her to sit up, and then—left his arm around her, familiarly but also somehow staged, like he was making a point.

“I suppose this is what you’ve come to speak to me about?” Lapinette prompted, seating herself on the side of the bed.

“I...we…”

“Your son has proposed marriage to me, milady, and I have accepted,” Joye said softly, somberly, as if trying to moderate the outrageous statement with politeness. “ _If_ he can get your consent, and m’lord the count’s consent. And my father’s likewise.”

Stephanivien laughed, an easy and genuinely pleased noise Lapinette had not heard from her weary son in far too long.

“Your father’s easy enough, my love, we’re old pals now, don’t you know?”

And she saw them smile at each other, conspiratorial and silly, and her heart ached for them.

“Stephan, you are the heir, you must have issue,” Lapinette said sadly. "Properly, of your lady wife," she added, making a face as if the words tasted bad.

She watched them share another glance, this one opaque to her. Joye nodded, though the blush was returning, and she clutched Stephanivien’s hand— _so_ very much larger than her own, Lapinette marveled—as if it were a lifeline.

“Joye is—that is to say—I am to be a father, _maman_.”

Lapinette was suddenly glad she was already sitting, for she felt sure her legs would not hold her at this astonishing statement.

“But how… you…” She frowned at Joye fiercely for a moment, and then… stopped. Shook her head. “No, this is too tasteless for a jest, and I do not see how you would rope dear Joye into such a thing besides. This must be something like truth, but—oh my dear, perhaps it is something else? There are terrible, terrible things, cancers and the like, that can mimic—“

Joye interrupted her, rather startling all three of them. “I thought the same, milady. Was sure, in fact. But I… I consulted a healer, and she made it clear to me I was, am—” She gulped, swallowing the nausea of her terrible, terrible anxiety. “That I am with child, milady. And I swear to you it is and could be no other’s than your son’s.”

“Well!” Lapinette exclaimed, faintly.

“I have asked father for his consent to wed, and told him to disinherit me in favour of Francel. I am no good at this, mother, you know it. And he grants his consent, however reluctantly, if you do.”

She looked at him shrewdly. “And if I refuse?”

“Then I shall disappear as surely as Durendaire’s heir, and I shall take Joye and her father with me, and we will make a family in some undiscovered land far, far away from here.”

Lapinette sighed, and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Joye, dear, would you—” She cut herself off. “Nevermind that.” She reached into her bedside table for her headache powders, and swallowed a packet dry, grimacing at the taste.

“You know this will be a terrible scandal.” It was not a question, and they both nodded their acknowledgement.

“Tell me what you have planned,” she ordered, settling herself up on the bed and resting her head against the headboard.

“One of the new Trinitarians from the Scholasticate is newly made a deacon—Chlodebaimt’s friend Theomocent?”

Lapinette made a small noise of recognition and waved a hand for Stephanivien to continue.

“He has agreed to marry us tomorrow, very quietly, and is investigating a way to have the common license remain unfiled with the records office.”

Joye squeezed his hand tightly and he smiled down at her. “I was going to tell you all of this later once I was sure I had fulfilled your quest, my dear,” he murmured.

Lapinette felt the vein in her temple throb.

“And then what? A bird may wed a fish, but where will they _live_?” asked Lapinette, dismayed anew.

“We would both like to remain within the city, but… to be honest, _maman_ , I hoped to solicit your counsel on whether or not that was even feasible.”

“M’lady, I’m not suited to be a viscount’s wife,” offered Joye. “I know meself well enough to know I’m not suited to be a viscount’s known _mistress_ either, though I know that’s the customary way of things.”

“You’re sensible as ever, my dear girl,” allowed Lapinette, opening her eyes a fraction. “So what do you suggest?”

“Wedded, true and right and proper, and then—well the scandal’s a scandal no matter what, and if I’m under his roof there’s bound to be scandal. So perhaps… act as if it weren’t a scandal, just that mad Haillenarte being a bit madder, beggin’ your pardon milady?”

“Don’t you wish to beg _my_ pardon, Joye?” Stephanivien rumbled into her ear.

She turned her head away coquettishly. “You know what you are,” she said, laughter finally creeping back into her voice.

“ _Maman_ , I—”

“Hush, let me think.”

Lapinette let her mind race. This was a challenge, and a worthy one, she could admit to herself. If her idiot boy was going to fall in love, trust him to do it in the most absurd and excessive way possible, but… well, it _was_ hard to resist a girl as sweet as Joye.

“Ugh,” she spat. “What I wouldn’t give for some foreign dignitary to be handy right about now.”

“Would the Warrior of Light suffice, milady?” suggested Joye timidly after a long moment.

Lapinette bolted upright in shock, and then clapped her hand to her head in dismay as she slumped back against the pillows. “Are you _quite_ done with the shocking utterances for the day?” she asked plaintively.

“We’ll try, _maman_ , but I can’t promise anything,” teased Stephanivien gently.

She let out a great gust of a sigh. “Here is what we will do. If for some reason you can get the Warrior of Light to agree to it, she and I and perhaps one or two other eccentrics we can scrounge up will go and witness your quiet little wedding. Your Trinitarian can file the license as usual.” She paused, and glanced a bit uneasily at Joye’s midsection. “Although if perhaps he would be amenable to backdating the license, that would be helpful. At any rate, your father and I will set you two up in a little townhouse and then we will _never mention_ that you are married. When the gossips finally stumble upon the scandal, I will be able to cut them off with my complete knowledge of what the oddest of my odd children has been doing, and they will be left unsatisfied and foolish.”

Lapinette cocked her head in a performance of preening pride.

“And then I win,” she declared with dainty smugness.

“Then… we have your consent?” asked Stephanivien, still trying to figure out how this would work in their favor, but trusting in his mother’s instincts for society battles.

“Oh do keep up, dear heart, yes of course I do,” she replied with a dismissive wave of her hand. “And I’ll guarantee your father sees things my way—well, your way, I suppose.”

“I _am_ sorry to leave your service, milady,” said Joye. “You’ve been most generous and—”

“Oh, you’re not going anywhere, my dear,” snapped Lapinette, not unkindly “If you’re to be my daughter, then now you’ll have to learn to play cards.”

Stephanivien managed to stifle his laughter, but got a sharp elbow in the ribs nonetheless.

~~~

In the end, there were only half a dozen people at their little wedding: Stephanivien’s mother and Joye’s father; Aymeric de Borel (who cried), on the arm of the Warrior of Light (who did not) and a very cheery lalafell named Tataru Taru (who cried harder); the notorious Hilda Ware; and Celestaux, standing in for all of the Skysteel Manufactory. Rostnsthal was invited and accepted, but blanched and turned tail when he spotted the roegadyn lass on the arm of the Lord Commander. (No one ever did manage to pry that story out of him; he’d only shudder and shake his head in fierce denial.)

Not so very long after that, Joye was delivered of a healthy baby girl, rather large for a hyur and quite small for an elezen, with her mother’s pretty freckles and her father’s handsome ears.

_And they lived happily ever after._

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "The Secret Marriage" by Sting because I am a cheesy bitch. Also I lifted a line from Fiddler on the Roof, which has the wedding scene most likely to make ME cry. 
> 
> This entire story came to me in a single night of insomnia but somehow it is still the fault of the [Bookclub](https://discord.gg/VyUxpJtNzb), your premier source for FFXIV fanfiction and fanfiction accessories.


End file.
